


This Too, Too Solid Flesh

by Celebratory Penguin (cpenguing)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Clearly I have some issues, M/M, McLennon, Minimal plot here, They'll always have Paris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 21:06:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11563341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cpenguing/pseuds/Celebratory%20Penguin
Summary: The Beatles watch the final cut of "A Hard Day's Night" and discover that Paul's solo scene ended up on the cutting room floor. Paul feels like a failure; the others want to help. But mostly John.





	This Too, Too Solid Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: There's no evidence that any of this happened. The only kernel of historical accuracy is that Paul did film a scene with actress Isla Blair that was cut from the film. The scene can be read here: http://www.beatlesinterviews.org/dbhdnscene.html
> 
> And obviously, the sex is just a product of my pathetic brain.

**THIS TOO, TOO SOLID FLESH**

"O, that this too, too solid flesh would melt,  
Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!"  
\--Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 2

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Smoke and dust motes danced in the brilliant light as the film began to run. John settled in his seat, smiling fondly as Ringo grinned and jammed his elbow into John's ribs. "Our big-screen debut, eh?" Ringo stage-whispered.

John adjusted his glasses and gave Ringo an answering poke. "Shush, or we'll be kicked out of our own preview," he said, but he heard the excitement and mirth in his own voice.

They'd worked so hard on their movie on top of everything else they were doing - the tours, the press conferences, writing dozens of songs, putting together a pair of albums. And here they were, part of a handful of people invited to see the final cut of "A Hard Day's Night" before the official premiere.

Paul was sitting on John's left. Paul had been the most anxious throughout the entire process, largely because he couldn't control what he didn't understand, and partly because his girlfriend was an experienced actress. None of the "Beatle Birds" was at this screening, for which John was grateful for Paul's sake rather than his own. After all, Cynthia would be proud of him no matter what he sounded like or looked like.

Jane, on the other hand...

John sighed. He wanted to like the girl, he really did, but her posh accent and dainty ways were a bit much for him to handle. Cynthia said she felt like a clumsy cow next to Jane. For once, John was in complete sympathy and agreement with his wife.

Wonders would never cease.

The film countdown had begun, taking his mind off of everything except how this movie was going to turn out.

It was a pleasant surprise. The movie was charming and funny, with enough absurdly impossible situations to make John happy, enough sardonic wit to please George, and enough music to gratify Paul. The bonus, as far as John was concerned, was how marvelous Ringo was in his role as beleaguered underdog.

Dark as the screening room was, John could swear that Ringo was blushing.

Spontaneous, happy applause greeted the closing credits. John beamed as the house lights came up and Richard Lester went to the small stage. "So, gentlemen, what do we think?" he asked.

It was then that John realized that Paul, and George sitting to Paul's left, were stock-still. Hadn't they enjoyed their movie? What was the matter with them?

George's voice broke the sudden, uncomfortable silence. "Is this the finished thing?" he asked, his voice tight.

"Yes, it's the final cut," Lester replied. He seemed nervous, as if he were waiting for a bomb to go off.

And it did, because George asked, "What happened to Paul's scene, then?"

John's heart sank. Of course, that was what was missing - Paul's solo turn with the young actress. He'd run lines with Paul for days, and he knew that Jane had coached him to within an inch of his life. But the scene wasn't there.

Lester ran a finger between his collar and this throat. "Yes. Well. I'm so sorry, Paul, but that...slowed the film down...and I'm afraid we had to cut it out."

"Well, put it BACK," Ringo bellowed. "Take a minute or two off my bit and give it to Paul."

Good lad, John thought. He glanced over at Paul, who was the picture of outward composure, as long as you didn't see how tightly he was folding his hands together. John listened to Lester babbling about Paul's "extra closeups" and "dramatic lighting" he had used to "even out the screen time," but John could see that his heart wasn't really in it.

"Doesn't matter," Paul said evenly. "It's a great film, Dick. Thanks for the preview." He stood up and motioned for the rest of the group to do likewise. "We have an early press conference tomorrow, and we're going to need our beauty sleep. So if you'll excuse us...?"

George's face was a thundercloud. He ushered the stiff Paul and bewildered Ringo out of the room with John on his heels. Brian tried to waylay them, but one look at the determined set of George's mouth and the dark flash of his eyes was enough to make him stand aside and let the four men go on their way.

They took a wrong turn and had to double back to find the exit. Lester was talking to Brian, explaining his decision. John strained to hear his words.

He wished he hadn't.

"I like the lad, Brian, I truly do. He's a charming fellow, but as an actor...he's a bit rubbish."

Thank Christ Paul was out of earshot, John thought. His blood was boiling and he wanted nothing more than to punch the guy's lights out. He turned back to fix Lester with a glare, then found himself colliding with Paul's back.

The group had stopped.

They had heard.

Paul had heard.

To his credit, Paul's only reaction was to set his shoulders even straighter and keep walking forward. The loud slap of his hand on the door handle was the only sign of how hurt and angry he must have been. He held the door for the other three, each of whom gave him a sympathetic glance as they passed.

They were in the alley now, where two unremarkable cars waited to take them home without crowds of shrieking teenagers. The four Beatles stood in a tight circle. Ringo slipped an arm around Paul's waist and hugged him. "The guy's dead wrong," he declared. "You look amazing up there. You were born to have that big baby face glowing twenty feet high as you sing your heart out."

Paul nodded his thanks, his eyes downcast. 

"I won't go to that sodding premiere, that's for sure," George snarled. 

Sometimes, John forgot that Paul had more history with George than himself. Sure, George and Paul could - and did - snipe at each other like brothers, but there was a bond between them that John envied.

"Yeah, we can strike or something, make them put Paul's scene back in." Ringo tightened his grip on Paul. "They're not going to fuck you over, not on our watch, are they? Maybe we can go to the press, even!"

John had never been prouder of his bandmates than he was in that moment. "Fellas, I think this is Paul's decision to make." He ducked his head so that he was in Paul's field of vision. "We're behind you all the way, you know."

Paul blinked, as if finally coming to grips with the fact that any of this had happened. He ran his hand through his hair. "I appreciate it, guys, I really do. But I think I'd better sleep on it. I'm too..." he made a vague, discontented face, then started over. "I'm surprised, is all. But thanks."

"Want to spend the night at ours, then?" George asked Paul, who shook his head.

"Thanks, but I wouldn't be much company. I'm better off at home." He started for one of the cars, leaving George and RIngo to get into the other one.

John would normally have gotten in with Paul, but he jerked his head in the direction of the back door. "Can you wait for me a minute, Paul? Need to spend a penny."

Paul sat back and waved John away. They both watched as Ringo and George were driven off, both men looking back through the window at Paul. Ringo looked sorrowful. George looked dangerous.

John sauntered back into the building. He didn't want the loo, he wanted justice, and he was going to get it if he to beat the shit out of someone. His hands itched to go around Lester's throat, or Walter Shenson's, or someone's. 

He shoved past Brian and stood next to the director and producer. "Ah. John," Lester said. "I'm glad you stopped. I hope there aren't any hard feelings."

He had to be kidding, right?

"I mean, Paul didn't seem to mind. He didn't look upset..."

"You're wrong!" John shouted in the man's face. "When you see Paul looking like he's just eaten a cucumber, he looks so cool, that's when he's hurting the most!"

"John," Shenson began, but John cut him off with a wave. 

"The only thing keeping my fist out of your faces is that Paul needs me not to be in jail."

Brian rushed up and started to say something soothing, but John turned on his heel and went to join Paul in the car.

Paul was staring ahead. Dry-eyed and still, it was no wonder that people thought he wasn't churned up inside. John would have thrown things at the screen, would have yelled and kicked up a fuss, but that just wasn't how Paul went through life.

John wondered why Paul didn't have an ulcer.

The car left them off at Wimpole Street, where the Ashers and Paul were living. Paul didn't seem to think anything of John's presence at his side; they had ended more than a few evenings here, after all. When he put the key in the lock, Paul said, "They've all gone to Scotland for the week."

Good, John thought, because one thing he didn't think he could bear was the sight of Jane telling Paul all about her day as a successful actress.

Paul went straight to the bar, dispensing scotch with a liberal hand and barely pouring any soda in it. He handed a glass to John and took one of his own, then seated himself on the couch with an exhausted sigh.

John sipped his liquid courage, then sat beside Paul, so close that their legs touched from hip to knee. Once again he peered into Paul's lowered eyes. "You're not rubbish, you know," he murmured. 

Paul gave a slight nod and set his lips in a tighter line.

"You're not," John continued. His heart ached; he would do anything, anything, to make Paul smile. "You're an annoying perfectionist, you're a bit of a showoff, and frankly any bloke who spends that much money on clothes is a bit suspect."

There, the mouth turned up just a bit at the corners.

"But one thing you're not is rubbish. At anything." John grabbed Paul's hand and held it fast. Paul's fingers were cold, so John put his other hand on top. "Paul, look at me."

Paul's eyes were dark.

"I'm only going to say this once, so fucking enjoy it while it's happening." John took a deep breath. "You are the best musician - hell, the best ARTIST - I've ever known. And I love you for it, you daft git."

Paul said nothing, only wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and buried his face in John's hair.

"You're not going to cry, are you?" John asked, worried. Paul's tears were rare, which was fortunate because they always burned John like acid.

Shaking his head against John's, Paul held on tighter, his breathing deepening as he clearly struggled for control. John patted his back and smoothed his rumpled hair. Paul said something that got muffled in John's jacket. "What was that, Paulie?"

Paul pulled back, his posture defeated, his face ashen. "I'm a failure," he mumbled. "How many people does it take to make Paul McCartney an actor? None, because it can't be done." He chuckled dryly at his own weak joke. 

"Paul," John started, but Paul waved him off.

"What'll I tell Jane? Or Dad, or Mike? God, they'll be so disappointed in me."

"They'll be furious, just like Ringo and George were. You heard them, they were ready to take these guys apart." Privately, John wasn't sure what Jane would do, but he knew the McCartneys better than his own family, and he wouldn't want to be whoever stood between Jim and his son's dreams.

Paul put his elbows on his knees and let his head drop into his hands. "Face it, would you? I'm a fucking loser. I'm not even entirely rubbish, for fuck's sake. Just 'a bit' rubbish. Can't even manage THAT."

John had never, ever, seen Paul so unhappy. It occurred to him that Paul had never failed at anything before. 

"Christ, I need a fag," Paul gasped, patting his pockets and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He dug out two of them and put them both in his mouth. John produced a lighter and Paul steadied John's hand with his own as he leaned forward. They had done this dance so many times, but the touch of Paul's hand on John's wrist was always a shockingly intimate gesture.

Paul sucked in the smoke, then took one cigarette out and passed it to John. "Ta," John said as he took a long drag. "Are you ready to listen to reason?" he asked.

"Maybe." Paul leaned against the sofa cushions. A veil of smoke obscured his face momentarily, then evaporated. 

"You're a fast learner," John said between puffs on his cigarette. "You're always the first one with a rhyme, the first one to understand all the bits and bobs in the studio. You taught yourself the guitar, right side up AND upside down. So what if acting isn't something you pick up quickly? It's not who you are."

"Ah." Paul flicked a long cylinder of ash into a marble ashtray. "So tell me, who am I? Not just Paul McCartney of the Beatles. Who am I...to you?"

Was he really that insecure?

John started to make a wisecrack, but then he looked carefully at Paul's anguished face and saw that his composure was dangerously thin. He reformulated his answer and took a deep breath.

"You're part of me," was all he could say before he began to choke up. Paul's gaze snapped up to John's face at those words.

"Which part?"

Dangerous question, that. 

John leaned forward, regarding Paul over the rims of his glasses. "The only part worth a damn," he whispered.

Paul's jaw finally relaxed and his eyes widened. "That's the nicest thing you've said about me in years," he said after a long, silent moment.

"Yeah, well, I mean it. I meant it that night in Paris when we were drunk off our asses, and I mean it now."

Oh, shit, he brought up Paris.

Paul's eyebrows shot up, two perfect arcs. "We weren't all THAT drunk, Johnny," he said, his voice low.

No, they couldn't have been, or else they wouldn't have been able to...to do what they had done.

John tilted his head to the side, asking Paul a silent question. Paul stubbed out his cigarette, sat up, and leaned over to John until they were forehead to forehead. John's breathing quickened and he let his eyes close.

"John," Paul breathed against him. "John, look at me."

When John opened his eyes, he saw so many things in Paul's expression: disappointment and embarrassment in his eyes, depression in the downward turn of the expressive mouth, a flash of longing in the blush that rose above his five o'clock shadow. John had to swallow hard and take a steadying breath to keep still and let Paul talk.

Paul brushed John's cheek with the back of one hand. "I do need something," he said, so softly that John almost couldn't hear him. "But what I don't need," Paul continued, his voice growing firmer, "is a goddamn pity fuck."

John leaned away from him and crossed his arms over his chest. "Is that what you think I'm doing?"

"Isn't that what you ARE doing?" Paul demanded.

"I'm - Jesus, no, that's not it, that's not it at all! I'm just saying that among the things you are not 'a bit rubbish' at doing, sex is right up there!"

They sat facing each other, staring each other down, neither one willing to be the first to speak. John noticed that Paul's fingers were twitching, playing an unheard melody the way he always did when he was deep in thought. From the rhythm, John realized that Paul was playing the bass line of "If I Fell."

"I'm not trying to hurt your pride," John said softly. 

Paul started, thinking hard, then gave John a rueful smile and stilled his traitorous hand. "Oh, please," he said, but his voice wasn't as steady as it had been.

The ludicrousness of the situation seemed to hit both men at the same time, because they burst into a simultaneous fit of laughter. "What the bloody hell are we doing?" Paul gasped between chuckles.

"I was hoping you knew," John replied. He loved seeing Paul like this, loved the sparkle in his eyes and the way he wrinkled his nose when he was so amused. Eventually the laughter subsided and they were left staring at one another again. Paul was looking at John's face as if the answer to some eternal secret was just between his eyes.

"Johnny." The way Paul's voice said that one word nearly rocked John off the sofa. It reminded him of a musty hotel room in Paris, of rain on his tongue and the mingled flavors of two-year-old French wine and Paul's nineteen-year-old lips. He remembered the smell of ozone and Paul's sweat, could almost hear the rumble of traffic on cobblestones mixed with the sound of Paul crying out as he climaxed.

After their trip, like a fool, John had insisted they put away their childish things and behave like real men - in his case, by impregnating his girlfriend and almost destroying his career in the process. Paul had thrown himself into his music, forging a trajectory that seemed to be ever-rising.

"I still..." John began, then lost his train of thought. "There isn't...I mean..." Suddenly, John became aware that his cigarette was down to a nub and was burning his fingers. "Ouch! Shit!" he cursed, dropping the butt into the remnants of his drink.

Paul smiled indulgently at him. "You're such a poet, Johnny," he said, leaning forward and resting his palms on John's thighs. 

Throwing caution to the wind, John cupped Paul's face in his hands and kissed him. They stayed like that for several long, lovely moments, re-learning the feel of each other after years of pointedly not-doing-this. Paul tasted like scotch and smelled like smoke and vetiver, and John couldn't get enough of him.

"I don't want to do this on the sofa," Paul murmured against John's lower lip.

"I don't want to do this in Jane's bed," John countered.

Paul pulled back, scowling, then he tangled his fingers in John's hair and started to laugh. "Thank you for that reminder. We'll go to my room, up in the attic. Jane hates it up there." Paul stood up, groaning a little at the way his pants hugged him in all the wrong places, and offered his hand to John.

John took Paul's hand and was, as always, surprised by Paul's strength. Paul was solid where John was wiry, steady where John was flexible. 

Face it, John told himself as he followed Paul up the wide staircase, Paul was perfect.

He felt another surge of anger. How could someone as allegedly smart as Dick Lester not see, not intuitively KNOW--

Paul's mouth was on his, silencing that part of John's brain. The anger swirled away, replaced by a longing so powerful that John's whole body trembled at the sudden wave of it. Paul put his fingers in the loops of John's belt, holding him close. "I've got you," Paul soothed.

They stood eye to eye, appraising one another. Paul was breathing hard, face flushed, lips darkened from kissing. His eyes were dilated but still so, so sad, and John wanted to erase that sorrow more than he wanted his next breath. He stood on tiptoe and kissed the corners of Paul's eyes, then lightly bit the tip of his nose, making Paul hiss in an attempt not to laugh.

"Johnny." 

"Call me that again," John gasped, "and I'll come in my trousers."

Paul arched his back, pressing his groin against John's. "Well now, we can't have that, can we?"

John gave him a warning growl that only made Paul grin cheekily and do it again. "Sodding sadist," John mumbled as he stumbled backwards and began unbuttoning his shirt.

That made Paul laugh. He was taking off his own clothes, somehow still looking graceful even with his trousers down around his ankles. John tripped over himself trying to get his pants off over his shoes, almost landing on the floor except for Paul's steadying hands at his waist.

"Let me," Paul cooed, pushing John to the bed and kneeling at his feet. He took off John's shoes and socks - John had never thought anything so mundane could be that erotic - and slid John's pants the rest of the way off, lifting first one leg and then the other until John was naked.

I am physically and metaphorically naked, John told himself, trying to keep calm while Paul kissed his way up John's right thigh. He wanted to touch Paul anywhere he could, his hair, his shoulder, the strong muscles in his back, as Paul slid up his body until they were lying side by side on the narrow bed. John tried to turn onto his back and nearly fell off. Laughing, Paul tugged his wrists and got him back into his arms.  


"Bit virginal, this cot," John complained. He got a sudden mental image of Jane on this bed, titian hair running down her back as she rode Paul.

"Stay with me, Lennon." Paul snapped his fingers in front of John's nose. He traced the line of John's jaw with a callused finger. "It's been a long time," he whispered. "I've...I've missed this."

"God, me too." John turned his head and kissed the inside of Paul's wrist, touching it lightly with his tongue. Delighted with Paul's shuddering gasp, John took his hand and brought it downwards, brushing his chest before finally wrapping Paul's fingers around his cock.

Smiling, Paul took the very broad hint and turned his strong, sure hand to pleasuring his friend. Long hours of playing bass had strengthened his muscles and left the very fingertips just rough enough to feel extraordinary against the velvety head of John's penis.

"You're still so good at this," John said, tearing his gaze from Paul's hand to his face. Paul was biting his lip, deep in concentration. "Christ, Macca, do you have any idea what this does to me?"

"I would," Paul said conversationally, as if he weren't in the midst of trying to coax another man to orgasm, "if SOMEONE were doing the same thing to me."

Oh. 

With a wicked smile, John returned the favor, enjoying the way Paul arched into his hand. Paul's familiar-but-different body was straining, the musculature more defined than it had been in those heady Paris days. He'd almost been a boy then, in John's thrall, but now they were equals.

John nudged Paul's knees and put his legs between them, changing the angle of his hand. Paul let out a little cry of pleasure that almost made John lose control. He leaned over Paul, stroking faster, urging Paul with quick thrusts of his hips.

Paul reached for John's face and removed his glasses, which had slipped almost to the end of his nose. His hand shook as he scrabbled around on the nightstand for a bare space.

"Now I can hardly see you," John whined.

"Should've worn your contacts."

It figured that they'd be having one of their half-assed arguments when John was a hair's breadth away from climax. He shifted again, and again, trying to gain more pressure because Paul's hands were shaking so hard that he could scarcely keep a grip on John's cock. Finally John got so desperate that he pulled Paul on top of him, letting Paul's weight add to the friction he needed. Paul's eyes lit up and he gave John a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss.

Somewhere in the depths of his brain stem, John knew he was moaning. If he had known how much the sound of his voice affected Paul, he would have sung an operatic aria on just the word, "Please," because that was the one driving Paul wild.

"Please, Paulie, please, please, I need it, oh God, please..." John's vision swam in a sea of blinding white light. He clutched Paul's bicep and threw his head back. "Paul!" he shouted, flailing in Paul's arms as he came, shuddering at the raw force of it.

Paul followed John's rhythm just as precisely as he did when they were in the studio together, timing his strokes with John's aftershocks, gentling him, then finally wiping the sticky mess from them both.

John opened his mouth to say something, failed utterly, and fell back on the bed as if he'd been punched in the gut. He was still shaking a little, which Paul misinterpreted as being cold. "C'mere," he murmured, holding John close and rubbing his hands up and down John's arms. Despite the cool breeze coming through the open window, Paul's body was warm and his eyes were fever-bright.

It was an effort to pull away from that delightful embrace, but John slid his mostly-boneless body out of Paul's arms and turned him over on his back. Never breaking eye contact, John pulled himself up on his haunches until he was just over the taut skin of Paul's cock.

"If you're tired," Paul began, but John silenced him by curling up at Paul's hip and taking him into his mouth. "Fuck!" Paul cried. "Warn a bloke before you do that!"

John snickered, noting that the vibrations made Paul buck into his mouth. As he decided to file that away for later use, he swirled his tongue around the shaft, then the head, surprised that Paul's bitter-salt taste hadn't changed in the last three years. Paul's hands were caressing his hair, bolder than the way he'd done it in Paris. Back then they'd both fumbled around, blindly guessing, but now they simply fit together in this as in everything else they did.

When he looked up, John saw Paul gazing at him with unabashed longing. "What're you staring at?" John asked after letting Paul's erection slip out of his mouth for a moment.

"Myself. Disappearing into you," Paul breathed.

John didn't say anything, just let his mouth go back to what it was doing before, but Paul's words burned themselves into his brain. He'd deal with them later, much much later. Afterwards. He concentrated on the head, where even the lightest touch of his tongue made Paul shudder, and on the pulsing vein on the underside. His jaw started to ache but he didn't care because hearing Paul calling his name was worth a few minutes of discomfort.

"John...John...I'm close," Paul moaned. 

John knew, could tell from the thrumming pulse and the way Paul's cock stiffened and thickened against his tongue. He was beginning to wonder what that gorgeous organ would feel like in his ass when suddenly Paul cried out and started spilling into his mouth.

Paul's voice cracked as he babbled nonsense syllables and obsceneties. It was the most beautiful sound John had ever, ever heard, and he couldn't help joining in, almost harmonizing with the descending pitches of Paul's breath.

"I've got you, Paulie, you're okay, you're amazing, it's okay," John said in a quiet sing-song voice, pressing his aching mouth against Paul's hip. Paul tugged at John's shoulder, pulling him so that their heads were right next to one another on the pillow.

"Sorry about that," Paul panted. "Meant to warn you better." He rubbed a shaking hand along John's jawline, massaging the stiff muscles.

John, who hadn't minded a bit, arched into Paul's caress, greedy as a cat wanting attention. "Try again next time," he said, waggling his eyebrows at Paul.

Paul's eyes widened. "Next time? In another three years, or..."

"'Or.' Definitely 'or,' I should think." He reached for the sheets and pulled them up over both their bodies. He didn't ask if he could stay, partly because he could tell Paul wanted him to, but mostly because he didn't think his legs would support him. He snuggled closer to Paul, not minding the thin sheen of sweat or the musky odor of sex, and Paul held tightly to him in return.

"It melted," Paul said around a huge yawn.

John blinked short-sightedly at him. "What?"

With an impish grin, Paul pointed vaguely at the direction of their groins. "Our too-too solid flesh."

Pulling himself up on one elbow, John stared at Paul in disbelief. "We're lying here naked, practically glued together with my spunk - sorry about that, by the way - and you're quoting 'Hamlet' at me?"

Paul gave him a sleepy, shy smile. "Don't disparage my Shakespeare. It made the cut, didn't it?"

Even with his brain still reeling with everything he had just felt, John knew that Paul was really asking if he had 'made the cut,' if John found him worthwhile. If John loved him.

"It's our next A-side," he declared, tucking Paul's head under his chin and kissing the sex-mussed hair. "Double fucking platinum," he added, but Paul's deep breathing told him that he had fallen asleep.

John knew he'd be awake for hours to come. It would give him time to think of what he'd say to mollify Cynthia for staying out all night and not calling. Then there was the fact that he and Paul would have to get their stories straight for Ringo and George, who were sure to be over at the dawn's early light to check on Paul. 

Perhaps it was best that he hadn't heard Ringo's car drive up earlier, didn't know that he and George had gotten out and had begun to ring the bell when the sounds of sex came floating through Paul's open bedroom window, hadn't seen the knowing smirk that passed between the two of them when they snuck quietly back and drove off into the cool evening.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

End  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________

**Author's Note:**

> Paul does quote this line from Hamlet during the dressing room scene, just before the Grandfather character gives the boys his "considered opinion."


End file.
